Chapter 8

The golden hour hit the stables like a physical weight, heavy and sweet, pressing the scent of dried hay, leather, and horse sweat into the very pores of my skin. We had stayed late, long after the other guests had drifted away in their designer dresses and crisp button-downs, long after the last glass of wine had been drained and the laughter had softened into polite murmurs. Now, it was just us. Just the rhythmic clip-clop of hooves on packed earth and the low, resonant whinny of a mare settling in for the night. I had been grooming Duchess, running the curry brush through her chestnut coat until she leaned into my touch, her eyes half-closed in bliss. It was a meditative rhythm, one that had kept me grounded while my mind wandered to the man standing by the stall door, watching me with that dark, hungry intensity that made my knees weak every time I dared to look up. He hadn’t said much. He rarely did when we were surrounded by the trappings of our public lives. He just watched. He observed the way my hips moved, the way the sweat clung to the back of my neck, the